


Baby It's !%$@! Cold Outside

by jendavis



Category: Leverage
Genre: Blankets, Cold, M/M, Stranded, Tea, Whiskey - Freeform, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:01:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not quite a shacking up story, but it's close.  (Thanks to elebridith for the prompt!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby It's !%$@! Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elebridith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elebridith/gifts).



It's January in western North Dakota, there's nothing but snow, blinding white in the moonlight, outside, and a temperature that peaked, three days ago, at _no degrees at all_. 

He only brings this up because Nate, on the other end of the line, is running things from their end from a nice hotel in Bismark that Sophie'd managed to get them into. It sounds nice, a mint-on-your-pillow, rooms-that-are-heated kind of place. Parker's out in town, slowly gathering up all the funds the mark's been laundering through the casino. Bored out of her mind, from the sounds of it, but at least she's warm, which is something. 

Something that here, out in the oil fields, he and Eliot most distinctly are _not_.

\--- 

It's not like he's even got the right to complain. _Eliot's_ the one who got soaked when a pressurized pipeline on the fracking rig burst. _Eliot's_ the one who would've probably died if not for the twenty guys around here who knew what the hell to do.

These guys out here, they've had practice, plenty of it, and it's cost them. Four men have died out here in the past two weeks. Three on the line, and one in his trailer. 

Alec wouldn't have thought something like that was possible, until they _got_ out here. Even with the deaths, the camp's been overcrowded for months, no room for the two new guys who'd joined up except for in the jankiest trailer out here. 

There's a split in the trailer's corner seam that someone's stuffed newspaper into, only that's been whittled away by the weather. The duct tape and tarp they'd set up isn't doing much more than giving an illusion of insulation. 

There's not much, inside, to distract him from the draft. No real kitchen, no power- generator fuel costs over twelve dollars a gallon at the company store, and no _plumbing_. Getting up to go to the bathroom entails a ten minute walk down through foot-deep snow through the camp to the line of port-a-johns out by the road. 

The sun's been down for an hour or more, and it's just as well that they're making do with nothing more than flashlights and the flame from the camp stove Eliot had brought. Thanks to the full moon on the snow outside, he can see the crack in the wall clearly enough.

\--- 

Even through the layers of sleeping bags and coats they've got piled into the corner, he can feel it when Eliot stops shivering. 

"El, man." Hardison pours the boiled water into the thermos, lets the tea bags steep; his eyes take a second to adjust when he shuts off the flame. "You still alive?"

Apparently the wind outside, shaking the wall of the trailer, is answer enough. "Is it done yet?"

"Yeah, just a second." The glass of the whiskey bottle is cold; it's surprising that he can even feel it as he splashes shots into the mugs. Another minute, though, he's adding the tea and passing one over to Eliot, whose hands are still cold enough that he hisses, pained, as he sets the mug down quickly.

"Two more days," Eliot says, once it's cooled enough to toast, and his grin is more grimace than smile. It's the same one he uses when he's been gut-shot and is trying to convince everyone he's fine. It never works, anymore- it hasn't for a long while, now- but telling him as much will only make him bury it deeper. 

"Day and a half," Hardison replies, in case there's any shot at nudging him into better spirits. "Nate's made good time on the Senator." 

The walls of the trailer give another creak against the wind- something like 30 miles an hour out there, last he checked, and double digits below _zero_. He swallows the complaint, probably for the forty-seventh time. It's just reflex, one that'll probably take three weeks to wear off. They'll be in Bermuda, or something, for their next job- actually, Mexico sounds good, or Brazil- and he'll _still_ be thinking his fingers are about to freeze off. 

"Hey, scoot over."

Eliot does, awkwardly, because there's too many sleeping bags and coats piled up for either of them to manage any semblance of grace, and for another minute, they're just trying to rearrange things. 

"You doin' alright?" Eliot sips his tea, once Hardison's settled against his side. 

"Shit, I'm just glad this job came up _now_ instead of two years ago."

"Why's that?"

"You were a lot less cuddly."

"You saying I'm cuddly _now_?" Eliot's growling, but he's not moving away. 

"I am. But don't worry, anyone pressed up against the wall trying to listen in will be dead by morning."

"Thirty minutes, max. Ten if the wind's picked up any," Eliot shrugs. "But yeah. Two years ago, you would've been whining so much I would've shoved you out there myself."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"Okay, then three years ago."

"Three?" Hardison considers it, figuring that he's right, or at least wants to be, and shrugs back. "But then you would've died of boredom half an hour later."

"Oh yeah?" Eliot seems to consider it, glaring wearily at the crack in the wall. "Yeah, probably. And speaking of which..."

Deciding that it's warm enough in here, finally- they haven't been able to see their own breath in a while- Hardison digs into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone, unplugging it from the charge pack. While he's jostling for the earbuds, Eliot grabs the thermos and the whiskey, pulling them both within easy reach. They're good to go.

"What," Alec mutters to himself, trying to find it. One of these days he's got to build his own damn audiobook app, one that actually _hangs onto_ bookmarks. 

"Chapter fifteen," Eliot reminds him, sliding his earpiece into place. "He just got to New York."

"Got it."

Grabbing his tea, he settles back and presses play. 

Eliot's hands, when he passes the bottle over five minutes later, are finally warming up.


End file.
